I tried to make like Icarus and soar for the sky
but the wind disheveled my hair and the sun burned my eyes.
I’ll just stay here on the ground, then–
at least here there’s no stars to tear down.
They just look like smoldering mothballs on dirty black velvet
so fuck ’em.
Jealousy rears its ugly little head again–
but never too much,
just high enough to take a bleary-eyed look around
and arrogantly mutter curses in a denouncing tone
before promptly drowning its crown in the inviting quicksand
(it’s crippling, but at least it’s consistent).
Jealousy never sticks its neck out far enough
to reach the chopping block, naturally.
“So why do you sit here on the sticky ground when you got yourself such a slick pair of wings there, Ick?”